


The King and Queen In-Waiting

by blackfyre



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackfyre/pseuds/blackfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Queens are not made for happiness, and Elia wonders if this shall be her cup to drink from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King and Queen In-Waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maximoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximoff/gifts).



> written for grayjoy on the got kink meme, prompt: Rhaegar/Elia, wedding night.

They marry in winter. 

Elia had not known winter – true winter – in Dorne. Winter there was only a chilly breeze, a cloudy day, frost and snow foreign things. The entire court of Sunspear attends; her brothers and her mother, the ruling Princess. Her maiden cloak is made of silk and satin and cotton, refusing the heavy wools and furs of the Northern kingdoms. She is of Dorne. Her mother brushes her hair before the ceremony and Elia savors it because this will be the last time her mother will ever brush her hair. Doran walks her to the altar and she takes comfort in the stability of Doran. He and Oberyn are sides of the same coin; one quick, one slow, one action, one thoughtful, one brash and one careful. Dorne will prosper with her brothers.

Winter in King’s Landing is a touch of frost in the morning, a puff of visible breath before midday, and Elia shivers as they wed before the sept. Rhaegar’s kiss is feather-light on her lips, a hint of lemon in his breath, as the crowds cheer and Elia smiles until her cheeks hurt and beyond. _I am no longer Princess Elia of Dorne. I am now Princess Elia of the Seven Kingdoms._

The Targaryen cloak is heavy, black and red and Elia tastes the blood of it as she bites the inside of her cheek. The feast is opulent – the king for once, is not at the center of the dais, regaled to Rhaegar’s side, his wife Rhaella further down. Rhaella looks like everything a queen should be – beautiful, graceful, long fingers, but the faint lines around her mouth do not suggest a life of smiles, a life of happiness. Elia wonders if this is to be her cup to drink from as well.

She had accepted the news of the betrothal with silence, thoughts swirling in her head, thoughts of inadequacy, how she is no beauty. Her mother, who is the steel on the tip of the spear, tilted her head up and her words burn like the desert sun, “You are a Princess of Dorne. You know our words. We have dragons blooded with sand and sun and spear in our veins, we have _unconquered_ strength in our bones,” her mother stroked her face, “you shall rise from Princess of Dorne to Queen of Westeros.”

She now holds her mother’s words in her heart, her mother who ruled, her mother who was the only woman of a great house ruling in her own right. A small part of her whispers _but you shall hold power only while your husband does. You do not have a right to that power. You must earn it,_ and Elia trembles and steels herself for the task at hand. The Dornish had loved her at birth. She never had to work for love before. She glances at her husband, silent beside her, and finds she does not expect love from him.

Love is a precious thing for fathers and mothers and brothers and friends. Marriages are a different matter, much less marriage to a king. Rhaegar leads her out to dance, graceful and light-limbed, and Elia matches his steps, light-headed from the day’s length and the wine, and she lets Rhaegar lead her more and more as the dance progresses. The music grows louder and she can hear her heart beating faster and louder and her blood pulsating, vibrating, a chorus of heavy drums and the door slamming shut on her childhood and happiness. _Queens are not made for happiness_ , she muses as the blood drains from her face and black spots swarm her vision. “Please,” she whispers to her husband, and she notices his concerned look (they are always only ever concerned) and he guides her back to the dais, kissing her hand as he sits beside her.

She knows many girls and women wish to be in her place, wish for this handsome and graceful prince, the prince who sing and play the harp, the prince is who so _unlike_ his father, the prince who will be king. Elia feels the weight of it, the weight of duty, the weight of _Queen_ , pressing down on her.

Elia smiles for the court as she makes a comment about the decorations, about the music, small talk of nothing with her husband. Oberyn soon sits by her and she is thankful for his company, this other half of her, her mirror. Oberyn is everything she is not and wants to be; he knows her truer than anyone alive and she knows if she asked, he would remain in King’s Landing, at her side, would even join the Kingsguard for her.

But she is not a girl anymore and cannot indulge herself anymore.

The night drags on and Elia drinks iced honey wine to clear her head. The men soon take up the call for a bedding and Elia blushes, nervous but while Oberyn has his spear to attack men, she has her tongue. She meets the jests with words of her own (careful never to be too ribald, she is a gently bred princess) and the heavy black and red cloak falls and her silks are wisps and wind as the men push and carry her down the hall to the bridal chamber.

Oberyn is with the men, eyes watching as their hands on her shoulders, her back, one last looming presence, a semblance of _Elia of Dorne_ and she covers herself with the bedsheets as the ladies, tittering and giggling, deposit Rhaegar into the room. The lords and ladies departed with shouts and cheers and jests, echoing in the hallway and Elia knows many will tumble into the beds of others this night.

She looks everywhere except her princely husband. She does not wish to see his pale skin, his pale silver hair, his purple eyes; she misses Dorne fiercely and all that Dorne was and she knows that if she ever returns, it will not be as _Elia of Dorne_. Elia hears him before she sees him, tears welling in her eyes. “Are you all right, my lady?” And Elia looks.

It is not pity or concern across his face, and Elia is relieved at that. There is only a questioning gaze and something resembling curiosity and she recalls a faint memory of her mother talking of the prince, _always reading books, they say, he is almost like a maester_. “I shall miss Dorne, and my brothers, my lord,” she says, meeting his eyes. She was born a Martell and her mother’s words give her strength. _Sun and spear are in my blood. I am not weak._

The bed shifts as Rhaegar sits beside her, “I should like to visit Dorne one day. I wish to see all the Seven Kingdoms, to see all the history and age of their lands. I am their prince, I will be their king, and a king must know their people. Should he not?” he turns to Elia.

 _He only wishes to be a great king. And a great king must know his lords and people. I will see Dorne again_ and that emboldens her. “Well, my lord, I know Dorne. Quite well, in fact,” a smile – a true smile – plays across her face, imagining the stories of Dorne that she shall tell her husband in time, “I could instruct you, if you like.”

Rhaegar runs the tips of his fingers from her cheekbone to her lower jaw, “I should like that, my lady,” he leans forward, a puff of air across her cheek, “ _Elia_.” His lips are soft against hers, gentle and kind. She pushes back at him, mouth opening against his, fingers entangling in his soft, silver hair. _This is my husband_.

His hands are gentle and Elia is not weak, she is not fragile like so many believe and whisper behind her back. She will not have her husband thinking her weak. He is uncertain, her husband, and it is Elia who guides them to lay down on the bed. Elia traces his body, the leanness of her husband, the sharpness of his collarbone. _He is built to lead, not to fight_ , and she smiles, _and fights can be won with words_. Rhaegar is not cruel, not insolent, not hurtful; he is a listener, a learner, a scholar, who studies the kings of old and wishes to be them.

He hesitates, hand above her breast, and Elia knows there may not be love in this marriage, but there is respect and she believes she can admire and be fond of the prince, of her husband, and so she guides him once more, deepening the kiss, pleased with the soft moan her husband makes. _I made him feel that_ , and she smiles.

Her husband becomes less hesitant, less nervous, his kisses more passionate (maybe as much as the songs he plays on his harp) and she does not jump when one of his hands dips low, tracing her hipbone for a moment before ghosting across her inner thigh and higher. She gasps in his ear as his fingers dip into her. Rhaegar kisses her neck, circling her pulse point as his fingers move and her hips hitch with his strokes.

His other hand moves up by her head as he braces himself, shifting between her legs and she bends her knees, moving her legs up. Rhaegar hesitates, his expression thoughtful and wondering, “Elia?” he breathes against her ear and Elia realizes, she knows that Rhaegar will never seek to hurt her, that he is not his father’s son, and the prospect of _Queen_ becomes less heavy in her heart. Her hand curls on his jaw and she smiles, “Rhaegar,” she answers, bringing him down for another kiss.

He tries to be gentle but Elia is strong and not does flinch at the first pain, not when Rhaegar is groaning above her and the pain lessens as she shifts and he moves, pushing out and slowly back in, and then it blooms into pleasure and Elia hungers for more. She matches his thrusts, hips rising to meet his, hands on his back, on his shoulders, bringing him closer. One of his hands cups the side of her neck, thumb brushing at the hollow of her throat.

Elia has known the facts of the marriage bed, has known what to expect, but words are only wind, pale to the weight and stone of action. Rhaegar shifts his hand from her throat, trailing down her body before meeting at their junction, finger brushing over the nub and she is whacked with the wave of pleasure. Fingernails bite into his shoulders ( _strength in her bones_ ) she urges, “don’t stop.”

She does not flush, for what is shameful about pleasure in the marriage bed? _The gods made us to feel_ , she fleetingly thinks before the pleasure building cascades and floods her, and Elia is free of her body for a moment, floating and there is only pleasure, only _herself_. She becomes aware of Rhaegar, his eyes studying her face intently, a hand brushing her dark curls from her face, as he moves, breath hitching. He shudders, thrusts losing their rhythm, once twice thrice, and Elia is aware of him spilling himself inside her, and he withdraws, her thighs sticky and warm.

Rhaegar rolls beside her, eyes fluttering shut. She shifts to lie on her stomach, a hand reaching to brush his pale silver hair away from his face. _My lord husband_ , she thinks, and the weight of Queen is something else besides dread and weight; it is this, it is having Rhaegar. Dorne will prosper with her as Queen, just as the realm will prosper with Rhaegar.

He turns to her, smiling. “Elia,” he whispers, “I am glad you are my wife.”

She is Princess for now; Westeros will wait for her and Rhaegar. She is strong enough to bear its weight; King’s Landing will not break her. She smiles. _I am of the sun and spear. And now a dragon’s bride._


End file.
